


The Forging Temperature of Certain Metals

by MadameFolie



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-23
Updated: 2017-04-23
Packaged: 2018-10-23 00:25:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10708308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MadameFolie/pseuds/MadameFolie
Summary: It's basic metalworking: fire forces out the impurities. Might as well take the process of immolation into his own hands.





	The Forging Temperature of Certain Metals

**Author's Note:**

> For the Synchronised Screaming flashfic challenge. This week's theme was lines from poetry. The prompt was: 
> 
> _Yuri - What is the point of setting yourself on fire_

His feet are burning. He’s used to the bruises, shit, he’s even used to the muscle strains in his arches and ankles. The blisters and abrasions fucking sting, though. Plasters don’t give enough coverage, he has to wrap them up with padding and gauze. Red seeps through and cements it painfully to his skin rusted constellations. Lilia says not to drain them. The hell with that. They’re going to burst whether or not he helps them get there. Might as well take it into his own hands. Okay, fine, he soaks them first and hits them with the antibacterial after, but at the end of the day he’s standing there in the shower watching the blood spiral in loose rivulets through water, along the porcelain and away down the drain.   
  
His legs are burning. Ice. Heat. Stretch. Repeat. He falls back on his bed to rub the aches out of his calves in little rolls of his thumb. At his shoulder Mishka mewls at him for not warning her. She rolls out her toes as well, claws pushing out above the soft pink pads. He rumbles at her; she purrs back. On his laptop screen, Otabek snorts, still tapping away at something in that music editing program he’s got. ‘You’ve insulted her majesty,’ he remarks. Yuri watches her limbs go taut and flexes his in turn. She curls her spine; he arches his. She yawns. The spell breaks. Christ, he needs some sleep.  
  
His skin is burning. As he runs through the park. Behind Otabek on his bike. Waiting for Yuuri on the bridge at night. The wind licks at his bones and surges like embers in his lungs. So he keeps pushing on through. On. And on. And on. The drums sound in his muscles, rattling his heart against him from within and he cranks up the music and lets the guitar singe his ears and rolls his ankle and splays his toes– and as the sweat begins to evaporate on his neck he pushes off again and keeps running. _  
_


End file.
